Tales and Prayers of a Discerning Man
by whirligigkat
Summary: "No, terribly dull, find yourself another one of those tweedy boyfriends that isn't a serial puppy-killer and you'll be right as rain in no time. Off you go. John, is there any of that take-away left?" A series of vignettes via iTunes shuffle. Cover image by Pikse.
1. Que Onda Guero

**A/N: A series of One-shots, inspired by Pickwick 12's "Snapshots of Sherlock". This was put together by going into my iTunes and putting it on shuffle: you are allowed only the amount of time for each track is to write a one-shot, with no editing (besides grammar) allowed. I might also add that I am a classical musician so there will be a LOT of classical music. This is a short little one, but there will be more, and longer! Enjoy!**

"Que Onda Guero" - Beck, 3:29

SLAM.

There went the door.

"Sherlock?..!"

Footsteps pound up the staircase, cheerful shouts. Not a 'honey, I'm home!" but queries on burned experiments, burned hairs, burned eyeballs floating in orange mugs in dirty microwaves. Something queer, something a little, off. The skull on the mantelpiece chatters in agreement to the rhythm of manic urgency: Wherefore, Whyfore? Coats swirl, scarves are donned.

SLAM.


	2. Zigeunerweisen

"Zigeunerweisen"- Pablo Sarasate (comp), Isaac Stern (violin), 8:18

Sitting, as far back as he can, in the leather of his chair; long limbs crossed casually, slender fingers tented in a show of..boredom? Thought? Who can say.

"Well? Would you be so good as to help us?" The paunchy, flustered little man in the waistcoat fluttered his question at Mr. Holmes- who stared more carefully at his fingertips, than at the man- aside, of course, from the habitual once over given as he had entered. The flames danced merrily in the hearth, crackling in the silence. Mr. Holmes peered at the man with a penetrating glance- "No, sir, indeed I do not think I will, not today."

And with that the fat little man grew red as a cherry, and seemed to grow fit to bursting- until, as if he had no choice in the matter, he withdrew a pistol from his waistcoat and waved it in front of Mr. Holmes long nose, uttering incessant, and ridiculous, threats. Mr. Holmes plucked the offending object from the indignant man's pudgy fingers, and threw it elegantly out of the open window.


	3. Beethoven Sonata No 9, Rondo

"Piano Sonata No. 9, III. Rondo"-Ludwig van Beethoven (comp), Arthur Schnabel (piano), 3:07

John Watson opened the door of his room, and slipped into the hallway, tatty bathrobe trailing on the floorboards. Stretching stiffly, he trudged into the kitchen, flattening his hair. On switched the kettle, in went the tea into the pot. Cursory glances inspecting that it was, in fact, tea, and not some other offending tub of chemicals. That the mug was, indeed, clean, and lacking of appendages. Pop went the kettle, and, ah, yes, of course, how could he have forgotten to check for the odd thumb?


	4. What have I to do with Thee O Man of God

"What have I to do with Thee O Man of God",

From "Elijah", Felix Mendelssohn (comp), Bryn Terfel and Renee Fleming, 6:34

She bustled about the mortuary, headphones clamped tightly over her ears. It was easier to prepare a body with a little movement of sound, a little company in an otherwise cold and lifeless room. A bit of drama was necessary to cull what could have easily become boredom, had these bodies not been people one, only two days before. Music filled the gaps, as she carefully zipped the bags closed, careful not to catch a nose.

It's why she likes Sherlock so much, she thinks, as she flits around the room on light feet, in a queer mood. Sherlock brings life- too much life- into an otherwise overly dead job. And if he's a boor, let him be: it's enough to look on that pale face and know the acerbic tongue that keeps her on her toes is moments from making an appearance and, surely, makes her feel a prize idiot nine times out of ten- but it's alright. She smiles a little smile to herself, because her small, odd life has enough bright spots to keep her dancing through the morgue.


	5. My Life

"My Life"- Dido, 3:02

She walks through the cold night, the fur of her hood nestled close to her face. The buzz of the phone stops her. Chilled hands reach for the little device.

"Happy New Year. SH"

A smile quirks the lines of her face.

She continues to walk- but the smile lives on in her eyes.


	6. Ravel Quartet, Trés Lent

"Quartet, III. Trés Lent"- Maurice Ravel (comp), Emerson Quartet, 8:39

Ticking clock.

The endlessness of waiting, as the sun rises slowly over a misty morning.

 _Just..don't be dead._

And John sits, staring straight-forward into the day. The sudden stillness of life hovers about his ears. He feels as if he may as well be floating- because here it is again.

 _Nothing ever happens to me._

And the anger, the complete, total, injustice of Sherlock's absence, hits him with dull thumps against his innards. And yet- the day goes on, time trudges forward. Peer out the window and people walk by, bundled against their inner thoughts. Mice scurry under floorboards, and the bacteria from Sherlock's constant experiments continue to chomp through their hosts.

He wants to wish, to shout, to give into his utter fury: WHY? He didn't, _doesn't_ believe that Sherlock is a liar, not for a second, not for a million years. And though it is no true comfort, that cold, hard truth resonates in the missing chasms of his body.

 _Where are you?_

Because he knows, in the aching, floating tendrils of his mind, that Sherlock is _somewhere_ \- a man that brilliant, that _alive_ , cannot simply snuff out in the most mundane patterns of physical existence.


	7. Daria

" **Daria"- Cake, 3:47**

I let them in, those boys. I let them in, and just _look_ at the mess they've made! I'm well aware it's mainly Sherlock- of course it is, John is much too much of a military man to leave nasty _brains_ on the stairway, bloody _bodies_ in the bathtub..! Of course they're always scolding me for tidying up too much ("Well you wouldn't have _known_ about that cadaver had you not been so insistent on poking around for mildew, would you!") but, well. It's just that, after all- I am rather curious. And it is rather exciting, isn't it? All the noise and, well, and nasty smells- it's a bit like having my own boys to look after.

And always getting into trouble, those two!


	8. Bartok Quartet No 1, Lento- attacca:

" **Quartet No. 1, Mvmnt 1, Lento- attacca:"- Bela Bartok (comp), Alban Berg Quartet, 9:22**

He reaches for the violin, in its sad, battered case leaning against the corner of the bookshelf. Flips open the locks, removes the covering, passes his fingers lightly over the strings- it's a beautiful instrument. Click, goes the catch over the bow- he takes it up swiftly, dusting a few strokes against the crusty cake of rosin. Attaches the shoulder rest, and sweeps the bow over the strings. He's rusty. Christmas fingers- or should he say, _case fingers_ \- no time to play when he's on a case, and his long, lean fingers are stiff. He curls and unfurls them a few times, briskly, to stretch his lazy hand, and tentatively tries a minor chord. Bach, just as well; Bach is just as cerebral, just such a genius- just so at unlocking music to its glorious potential- but no, not today. Bach takes dedication, practice- and Sherlock hasn't touched his instrument in weeks. He sighs through his nose, gritting his teeth and crunching the strings. Fair enough, an easier movement, then; a dance. No silly chords in those. And he whisks himself away in a cloud of E Major and lively tunes, breezing past the possibility that there are some things in his life which he _might_ possibly never be able to do.


	9. Bach Partita No 3, Gavotte

" **Partita No. 3, III. Gavotte"- J.S. Bach arranged by Felix Mendelssohn (comps)**

 **Fritx Kreisler (violin)**

 **3:12**

"Have you ever thought about getting an animal? A cat?"

Sherlock glances at him over the edge of his laptop. John slouches in his chair, eyes on the crap talk-show that spills across the telly.

"What could have possibly put such a ludicrous idea into your head?"

John smirks. Sherlock looks disgusted. The typing on his laptop swiftly resumes.

"I thought that cat of Connie Prince's was lovely. Hairless, you know. Thought the skull might enjoy a friend, it also being lacking of hair and all."

Sherlock continues to tap, sparing a glance in the skull's direction. "He was bald too, you understand."

"We'd have to call him Yorick."

"The cat, or the skull?"

"The cat."

"The skull was a friend, you know. Brush up on your Shakespeare, John, don't be an idiot. His name is Horatio. Was Horatio."

"Happy coincidence? With a mixed-up name like that, you can't _not_ have a cat named Yorick-"

A sigh escapees, pinched through Sherlock's long nose. The chatter of the keyboard stops.

"Well, maybe not a close, personal friend- but too much serendipity to let such a good skull _lie._ Tell me, would you care for your skull to grace the mantelpiece, or perhaps just a femur? _"_

A brief silence, where Sherlock's pale eyes grin at the back of John's head.

"So, Yorick the Hairless it is, then?"


	10. (Night Time is) The Right Time

" **(Night Time Is) The Right Time"- Ray Charles, 3:24**

"Two, er.. beers, please. No, please use this. Four hundred and forty-three point seven milliliters."

And back he comes, clutching two beakers and looking outrageously pleased with himself.

"Well. Yes. This seems logical, of course."

"It is indeed, John. I've done the precise calculations, and in order for us to not be entirely pissed after patroning all of 17 bars over the course of 2-and-a-half hours, this is the optimal amount of imbibement-"

"Imbibement is not a word, Sherlock-"

".. _Imbibement_ , as I say, assuming each beer comes in at 4.75% alcohol content which, by my measurements, culminates in a very standard, albeit not very exciting, alcoholic beverage."

"..Ah hah. Yes of course, I see it now."


	11. Le Quattro Staggioni- Summer

" **Le Quattro Staggioni: Summer, II. Adagio e piano- Presto e forte"- 2:35**

 **Antonio Vivaldi (comp), Itzhak Perlman (violin)**

Across the moors, he can see the rainclouds slowly settling in. He climbs up onto the rocks for a better view, scrambling with beautiful leather shoes better accustomed to London pavement. He climbs, John thinks, with the same exuberance he gives to everything- long fingers nimbly finding holds in the rock, launching himself with artless grace to the top of the pile. He stands tall, hands in pockets, curls blowing in the wind- all cheekbones and coolness and, John thinks, _My life is ridiculous._


	12. Were You There

" **Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?" - 2:47**

 **Traditional American Spiritual, Kathleen Battle (soprano)**

The service is abominable. People didn't really _like_ Sherlock, not really- with the exception of a few. Anderson has come, funnily enough- looking odd and dodgy and uncomfortable, hands in pockets and not really knowing where to look. Sherlock would not so much have hated this, John thinks, but would not have had enough patience to even look on this event with any real focus. He would wait only long enough to inform John of how horribly, insufferably tedious the whole enterprise was, before striding off with hands in pockets, in search of something more interesting.


	13. Doctor Finkelstein

" **Doctor Finkelstein" - Nightmare Before Christmas Soundtrack, Danny Elfman, 2:44**

That triumphant grin spreads across his face, slowly, in a way that could be only described as a smirk. "Of _course!_ Yes, yes it all makes perfect sense.." The pacing quickens, followed by a dead stop in the middle of the room. " Right, off we go then," as he practically jumps for his coat, draped across the chair at the desk.

"Sorry, _where_ are we going?" John leaves his chair a little more calmly, but not without a glimmer of delight peeking through his serious features.


	14. O Magnum Mysterium

" **O Magnum Mysterium"- 3:04**

 **Gregorio Allegri (Comp), Choir of King's College, Cambridge**

Mycroft pours his tea, slowly, into his cup- not a mug, mind you, but a proper teacup with a proper saucer. It is white, clean, with a thin band of gold running round the rim. It steams pleasantly back at him, and his smile pinches into a little smirk, a "Hm," escaping his throat. He folds his hands together across his waistcoat, sits back, and waits for it to cool.


	15. Helicopters

" **Helicopters"- Barenaked Ladies, 4:33**

And suddenly, Sherlock knows, knows with every fiber of his being. He side-steps John, lifting the pistol from his pocket and, without a second thought, blows Magnussen's brains into little specks of red and white filigree. "There, that's done it," he thinks, tossing the gun to the side and raising his hands slowly above his head. Vaguely he hears John behind him, shouting in fear and disbelief, _Christ, Sherlock!_ \- but it's alright, he thinks. It _had_ to be done. He doesn't quite understand it, but he loves John- and by association Mary- and, it seems, he would do anything for them.

 _I'm not a hero..I'm a high-functioning sociopath!_

And it is _not_ heroic, it merely had to be done. Logically. Simply.

"Give my love to Mary," he tells John, eyes cold, lips pinched. His coat flaps in the wind.


	16. Rite of Spring- Adoration of the Earth

" **Rite of Spring, I. Adoration of the Earth"- 16:06**

 **Igor Stravinsky (comp), Charles Dutoit and the Montreal Symphony**

The chemicals swirled into the beaker, delicately and gently tangling their tendrils into different colors. I snapped on my safety goggles- new ones, as the last pair had a sad run in with a rather unfortunate ball of flame- and carefully set the burner to low. Bubbles began to rise up almost immediately. Interesting. Now why was it doing that..? I stared at it, thinking, for just a moment too long- ah yes, there it goes now, all over the table- but of _course_ that's why-

John chose that moment to poke his head into the kitchen. "Sherlock, do you smell that..?" I was still staring at the mess, mind whirring at the implications- _yes, yes!_ And John yelped as he spotted the overflowing chemicals oozing from the beaker and across the table, leaving a sticky, dark, and slightly smoking trail in it's wake. John was in front of the burner in a moment, quickly switching it off, scolding me and beginning to clean the mess- "No, don't _touch_ that-!" I snapped, scooping a small amount into a waiting container and screwing the lid on tightly. It burbled merrily at me. "Ok, now you can." John sighed exasperatedly and began to clean the offending ooze off the table with a decrepit looking rag.

"You know, we really need a chemical waste bin around here.." he muttered under his breath.

"Mm, yes, we really must…where's your phone?" I peered at the container under the lamp, turning it to catch the changes in color.

"Use yours, my hands are dirty."

I scoffed. "Mine's in the other room."

"So is mine."

"Well whose is farther?"

"Mine."

"How do you know? You don't know which other room I was specifying."

A grunt of annoyance- "Bloody hell, Sherlock, use your legs- "

"I'm _busy- "_

"Just _who_ do you think is cleaning up your disgusting mess..!"

"Ohhhh, very well. If you must."

I walked into my bedroom, retrieving the phone from my coat pocket.

TO: Mary Watson

He's all ready for your night out- pop round soon and he'll be ridiculously delighted to see you. -SH


	17. Who Needs Sleep?

" **Who Needs Sleep?"- 3:44, Barenaked Ladies**

Flipping, flipping, flipping through every book, through innumerable stacks of books. Numbered words jumped off the page.

"'The'..no…'lesson', no…'grease', no…'

"How about 'sleep'? I could use some of that.." John mumbled, head propped on one hand while he leafed half-heartedly through another yet another book. His eyelids drooped with the effort, and he could tell his speech was starting to slur. In a massive effort, he wrenched his eyes open and stretched.

"'Second', no…'offer', no…"

"Sherlock, do you ever sleep during a case? Just, it might be something useful for me to know."

"'Get', no….'need', no…"

"Sherlock? Sherlock, do you even listen when I'm talking?"

Sherlock breathed out through his nose in a snort. "John, if you must sleep, by all means go, but do remember we've a killer to catch. 'Come', no…'Octopus'..well that would at least be interesting…"

"Mm, yes, right, nasty killer on the loose. Who needs sleep?" John grumbled, and reached for another book.


	18. Grieg Quartet in g, Presto e Saltarello

**Grieg Quartet in g minor, IV. Finale (Lento- Presto al Saltarello)- 8:37**

 **Edvard Grieg (comp), Guarneri Quartet**

"Yes, yes, I've been, of course I've been," he said, flapping his hand distractedly in my direction. I shook my head at his impatience, watching as he destroyed the room in an effort to find..something.

"Sherlock, you do know there is a rather large difference between Florida and New York? This won't be like Mrs. Hudson's case, Florida is…well, you know, _muggy._ "

"Hm? Yes, well, I've an uncle, or one of those other insipid relations. In Manchester, Rochester, one of those places the colonists transported onto their coast..do you know, what a pitiful excuse it is, I'm sure they've nothing similar.."

Books were being shifted from one pile to the next, drawers opened and their contents spilled across the floor, until- "Aha! Here it is, John," - and here Sherlock strode to the wall, one foot on the coffee table to plant two on the objecting sofa, and began to tack up his find- "The New York City Tube System!"

I shook my head at him, grinning at his contagious enthusiasm. "I'm quite sure it's called the metro- "

"We're going to New York, John!" He crowed delightedly, standing back to admire the map now adorning the wall.


	19. Bitter Tears

**Bitter Tears (Out of the Game)- Rufus Wainwright, 4:06**

He was a most peculiar man, she thought, as she watched him watch her, taking her in, analyzing, guessing- no, _deducing_. If there was one thing she knew about Sherlock Holmes, it was his that _deduction_ was the key word. She bit her lip in consternation, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe- he'd take her case and, by inference, her _problems_ away from her. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, she knew, and the mascara was probably streaked halfway down her face. She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to control herself, squeezing her eyes shut once, and opening them wide again.

She looked at him, looking at her, grey eyes intense and shifting everywhere. She hoped- she _hoped-_

"No, terribly dull, find yourself another one of those tweedy boyfriends that _isn't_ a serial puppy-killer and you'll be right as rain in no time. Off you go. John, is there any of that take-away left?"


	20. Serenade

**"Serenade"- 3:36**

 **Franz Schubert (comp), Fritz Kreisler (violin)**

"Sherlock?"

"Mm".

"What's the difference between a violin and a fiddle?"

 _Silence, save for the sound of Mrs. Hudson's hoovering._

"Sherlock!"

 _A great and long-suffering sigh is heaved._

"Why do you insist on asking inane questions?"

"It's not a _inane_ question, I'm- I was just _asking,_ is that so wrong?"

 _Silence._

"Sherlock!"

"Look, Google it, why don't you, I'm busy!"

"Why should I when I have the human _bloody_ encyclopedia for a flat-mate? Or can't you answer a simple question?"

 _Silence._

"Well why don't I just inspect your violin, then..can I play it?"

"NO! _Don't_ touch it."

"…."

"It's just a name, alright? It's the same thing- a fiddle is used in a folk setting, a violin for classical."

"And- "

"No, John, shut up. I'm busy. And don't touch it."


	21. Meditation

" **Meditation" from Thaïs- 4:04**

 **Jules Massenet (comp), Fritz Kreisler (violin)**

 _Oh, no. No, no, no, no…._

He was lying on the floor, convulsing, eyes rolling to the back of his head, curls flying and already streaked with sweat. I crossed the room in three quick strides, hand curling automatically around the mobile in my pocket. My knees bent mechanically to the floor as I felt at his neck active pulse, bullet wound to the chest.

 _Bullet wound to the chest._

My vision blurred and I saw, again, Sherlock's body as it had been that day, crumpled and bloodied on the pavement outside of St. Bart's. _No._

And it was as it had been, for a moment, as the army doctor inside me took control- my index finger pressing 999 into the mobile, "Hello? Yes, I need an ambulance _now._ Bullet wound to the chest, maintaining pressure…" And this was true, as the phone had been lodged against my ear and shoulder and my hands had torn away at the cloth of Sherlock's shirt, compressed over the wound while the blood leaked from between my fingers. His mouth was moving soundlessly, everything twitching horribly.

"No, Sherlock, ssh, don't speak, you'll be ok, _you'll be fine- "_ I told it to him firmly, as if there was no other choice.

"Mm.. _Mmaah…"_

"Ssh, no, _don't_ , don't speak, Sherlock, stay with me."


	22. Tribulationem et Dolorem

**"Tribulationem et dolorem" - 4:57**

 **Carlo Gesualdo (comp), Oxford Camerata**

She unlocked the door, and slipped inside the flat. Keys were dropped into the waiting dish on the cabinet, mail deposited next to it.

"Sherlock?" She called, kicking off her shoes one by one. Her sweater and bag were hung on hooks, and still the silence held.

It wasn't unusual. He ignored her all the time, flipping through his phone or scrolling through his laptop; desperate for news, for data. She was unimportant, yet completely vital- a fact that she held close and dear to herself when he became so silent and distant she wasn't sure what to do.

She sighed, and trudged down the hall, heading for the kitchen and a cup of tea. There, next to the box of peppermint tea, was a note.

 _Thank you, Molly Hooper._

She picked it up, carefully, biting her lip. And so, after weeks of hiding at her flat- weeks of putting up with his nonsense, his cold indifference and urgent gratitude, he was gone. And who knew if she would ever see him again?


	23. En ces lieux

" **En ces lieux, malgré moi…"- 10:01**

 **From Samson et Dalila, Camille Saint-Saëns (comp), Placido Domingo and Elena Obraztsova (singers)**

The walk to the plane was interminable. He had looked John in the eye, had felt the darkness creeping up from the pits of his stomach. How does one speak to a friend for the last time?

 _To the very best of times,_ he had said, and shook John's hand. His grip was firm. It felt as if the air had suspended in his lungs, loathe to move one way or another. He met John's eyes with his own in a hard, blazing look, squeezed his hand once, and let it fall. The air escaped his lips in a rush. He turned, and didn't look back.

He stared out the window of the jet as it raced down the runway, unseeing, allowing the bleakness to release into his mind as he unraveled in his thoughts. His eyes closed, his hands convulsed unwittingly into fists. He chased circles in his mind, each more hopeless than the last: this is what it meant to be sent to one's end, devoid of those people that might have brought light.

"Telephone for you, Mr. Holmes," she said, and handed him back his life.


	24. Shostakovich Concerto No 1, Scherzo

" **Violin Concerto No. 1, II. Scherzo: Allegro"- 6:50**

 **Dmitri Shostakovich (comp), Vadim Repin (violin)**

Sherlock Holmes does not flee. He becomes part of the night he walks into, just another person leaving their flat. His telltale coat has been left behind at Molly's- something for her to remember him by, he supposes, although he's not one for sentimentality. He won't be needing it again.

He steps into the waiting car, where Mycroft is waiting for him, lips pressed into a flat line, hands perched on the handle of his umbrella.

"Hello, Brother Mine," he says.

Sherlock stares at him, grey eyes unflinching. There is no trace of feeling in his face, that cold exterior reflecting only the dim light of the moon.

"Where will you go?" Mycroft asks.

"You know where I'm going."

Mycroft smirks, but it slides from his face too easily, replaced by the slightest tinges of concern. "I am afraid I will miss you, little brother."

"Oh spare me, Mycroft," Sherlock sighs, stretching out as much as he can in the confines of the car.

The silence between them is thick with unsaid words. Both stare out their respective windows, fingers drumming in mirrors of each other. The car stops.

"When do you suppose you might come back?" Mycroft is full of questions tonight- although he knows the answers, there is some comfort in hearing answers spoken, as if by passing into sound they might become truth.

"Moriarty's network is vast. Why are you asking, you _know_ the answer." Sherlock pushes the door open, ducking his head out and into the night air.

"And what about John?"

He pauses, hand resting on the edge of the door frame. After a moment, Sherlock's voice floats in through the door: "John's alive."

The door slams.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," says Mycroft.


	25. America Before the War

**"Different Trains: America Before the War"- 8: 59**

 **Steve Reich (comp), Kronos Quartet**

Different trains of thought raced through his head. Each was it's own twist, it's own turn. He raced down the corridors of his mind, opening doors, slamming them shut. Redbeard. The Woman. Moriarty. Hallways echoing memories from Cambridge. The click of his heels against nonexistent marble.

Molly was standing in his way. She smiled at him, and he pushed her aside irritably, hurriedly.

Another door. Another twisting maze of stairs. Molly was perched on the bannister. "Hullo, Sherlock," she said. "Not _now_ , Molly!" he shouted. She disappeared.

This one. Through this door. This was the one.

He took a breath, twisted the handle.

Molly was standing in the darkness. She waved to him.

This was not right. Could _not_ be right.

" _You_?"

His eyes flickered open; the edges of his jacket had pressed lines into his face. He raised his head, lifted his hands to muss his hair.

"Oh, you've come round," said Molly. "Wasn't sure if I ought to start poking you or not." She spoke from across a room of microscopes, goggles strapped to her face.

When she looked up, he was gone.


	26. Tehillim

**"Tehillim, Psalms 18:26-27" - 7:40**

 **Steve Reich (comp), Alarm Will Sound and Steve Reich (performers)**

"His name is Herodotus," says Mycroft, turning in his seat to stare at the squirming puppy.

"Imbecilic," mumbles Sherlock from the back of the car. The red puppy has wiggled its way onto his lap, slurping and licking and pawing at Sherlock's face, causing the boy to giggle under the assault of surplus saliva.

"Sherlock, don't- have him sit _still,_ he'll have a wee on you if you don't- and _watch your tongue_ , young man, how many times- "

She is interuppted, inevitably, by the squeal from Sherlock, half exclamations and oaths, half the delighted giggles of a child- " _Mummy, he wee'd on me!"_

Mrs. Holmes sighs, and steps on the gas ever so slightly. The car thrums underneath their feet, whisking them down the lane. "Well that was a necessary disaster, I suppose… keep your shorts on, Sherlock, we'll get you cleaned up in a mo'… and for God's sake keep that damned puppy off the leather!"

Mycroft clears his throat, head tilted and looking pointedly at his mother. _Language, Mummy dear_ , she can hear him think at her. It is infuriating, his abominable little smirk, she thinks, and loves him for it. She shoots him a withering look and an _Oh, do shut up, dearest._

Sherlock bounces in the back of the car, black curls flying in every direction, soaked in puppy piss and happier, possibly, than he has ever been. "The whole car will smell of wee, come the morn'!" he crows.

It is not until later, when Sherlock has been thoroughly cleaned and the puppy has been left to investigate the house, that the issue of the name is addressed. Not a corner is left un-examined, not a scrap of food left un-tasted on the floor. Mycroft and Sherlock tail the dog, as it explores the house. "…and anyway, _Herodotus wouldn't wee in a car_. You can scratch that off your list, Mycroft, it's horrendous. And before you suggest it, neither would Socrates, or Archimedes, or- or- Clytemnestra."

"Clytemnestra is a _girl_ , brother-mine," Mycrfort scoffs. Sherlock scowls at the puppy's tail, and then darts forward to pick him up. The boy stands with an armful of warm dog, nose to curious wet nose. The unabashed joy in Sherlock's expression is something that is not often seen, and Mycroft considers it. This is _Sherlock's dog_ , there is no question about it, he can see it now- and therefore it should have a name that would suit Sherlock. The puppy's long, silken red ears flap about its face in his enthusiasm to _smell, smell, everything!_

"Redbeard," says Mycroft, after a moment.

"What?" Sherlock asks, lowering the scrambling puppy to the floor.

"His name," smirks Mycroft, "is Redbeard."


	27. Toccata VI

**"Toccata VI"- 5:59**

 **Paolo Cherici, guitar; Giulio Caccini, comp**

It is purely logical, he thought, as he sat, cross-legged, on the rug. He stared at the needle. The needle stared back at him.

It is purely logical, he thought, that an experiment be prepared on the first-hand experience of the heroin user. How else could one begin to form conclusions on those criminals, those that lurked in the ebb and flow of a foreign substance in their veins, without some basis for fact?

Yes, it is purely logical, he thought, as he carefully rolled his sleeve back, secured the tourniquet, and slapped at the crook of his arm. The flesh reddened slightly, a blue-green vein peered through the skin. One needs to know how to do these things themselves.

 _Purely logical_ , he thought, as he plunged the syringe into his flesh, pushing the chemicals into his bloodstream. He pulled the needle out carefully, tossed it to the side, released the tourniquet, and fell back, arms spread. He gasped for air, the rush coursing through his body, as if he had driven himself headlong from an icy wind into a tub of hot water, the extraordinary high taking his breath away. His hands twitched, to scrub through his hair- but they only twitched, losing their purpose halfway.

 _Logic…logic!_

The pupils dilated, synapses fired and convulsed, and he simply _felt_ \- felt his fingertips, felt the rough carpet on his bare skin, felt the slight pressure at the needle's entry point. It was an explosion of touch, of the sounds of ragged breathing, of the feeling of air in his nostrils.

But that itch- the interminable itch of _boredom_ had been quenched by the fire in his body. He was free, he thought, _from logic,_ for once in his young burst of life. The momentum lasted, and lasted, and lasted…

Until it was gone.


	28. Storm Drums

**"Storm Drums"- 6:02**

 **Medwyn Goodall**

The blink of an eye. That's all it took.

 _To Mary, lots of love poppet, oodles of love and heaps of good wishes, from Cam. Wish your family could have seen this…_

Her heart pounded in her ears. She could feel the flush rising to her face, as she struggled to tamp down the most base of instincts: fear. The sweat trickled down her back, as John leant over to ask, _You alright?_

She knew she must have grimaced, must've given something away- but no, just missing her 'family', was all.

The shock of that name- _CAM_ \- sent little spirals of warning down her spine, pulsing into her very fingertips. All this time, she thought she'd been safe. She'd built this new life, stolen a new name. _Mary_.

 _Mary_ is who she was, and who she wanted to be; and it is _Mary_ who has John, and it is Mary who _married_ John, and who will, _will,_ come what may, spend the rest of her life at his side.

And after all this, she had just begun to hope, and dream, and _be_ with the kindest, warmest man she could ever know, or want to know-

And there, at her wedding, the fear and panic slammed into her with such acuteness that she felt paralyzed with the urge to scream, and the words caught in her throat _MY John, MY Husband- MINE._

She finished the shuddering breath, forcing it into her lungs, and exhaled. Sherlock rambled on- poor, clueless Sherlock- and John clasped her hand in his. She closed her eyes, and opened them.

And it was all in the blink of an eye.


	29. Kyrie

**"Kyrie"- from Missa in Angustiis; "Nelson Mass", 6:39**

 **Trevor Pinnock and the English Concert and Choir, conductor and performers**

 **Joseph Haydn, composer**

For now I see, as in a glass darkly, the swirling shapes coalesce through the fog of my thoughts. It is rare that they are so dim; but then phantoms will disturb me at the most inopportune of moments. It goes to follow that this must be _the_ inopportune moment…

The shapes draw nearer, and my eyes seem useless, for the image is the same, within and without, and they whisper at me, with voices unattached to earthly bodies…

 _Sherlock…_

I become aware- and that in itself is a miracle- that I am naked, am bloodied and bruised, and that the ache of pain in my hands, my joints, my limbs…that it is all a curious thing, really, as I begin to catalogue my hurts.

 _Sherlock…_

It is easier to diminish into the shades and specters of people I have left behind. John's face becomes clear in my mind's eye, swimming in and out of focus- he separates from the shadows, the lines of his being becoming sharp against the clouds of black and grey. His blue eyes are wide, his mouth moves…

 _Sherlock…_

And it is then, as he draws close, that the pain and unspeakable, unacknowledged emotions spike into a moment of intense regret- before consciousness slips from my grasp, and I sink away, away…

 _Sherlock…_


	30. Sonata in D

**Sonata in D Major, J.S. Bach- 27:47**

 **Tibor de Machula, cello**

My Dearest Sherlock,

It's a bit ridiculous that I start every one of these unsent letters with 'dearest'- considering that Christmas fiasco last year, you would think I'd be a bit more averse to the word. And yet it comes out, every time, as if my pen needs to find some sort of comfort in that word when you are not here to be a royal arse about it.

I had a body that you would've liked today at work. No, that's not…that's not what I meant. What I meant was, you would've been interested in it. And maybe you would've helped me figure it out, although I think I've done pretty well myself. Blunt trauma to the back of the head, stabbing wounds- all of which were done after death; very slight signs of asphyxiation. White powdery substance around the nostrils, which at first I'd thought was just mucus, but no. Anyway, the point of the matter is, I think I could've gotten it all done a lot quicker if you'd been there pointing everything out, and I wouldn't have had to stay late and would've been wearing these wooly socks and drinking cocoa much, much sooner. If you'd been there, I wouldn't have put whisky in the cocoa, and I might not even be alone now.

It's terrible to miss you when you were so cooped up here, but I loved having someone to come home to, for once in my life. I miss having new burns on my kitchen table, I miss the way the door knocker was always slightly off-kilter. It's always straight now. I miss your warmth at night, even if you almost never slept. And if that's not selfish, I don't know what is. I suppose it's just as well these never get sent; not like there's even an address to send them off to. But for God's sake, Sherlock, be careful. With whatever you're doing, wherever you are…just be careful. Don't do anything stupid- which should be easy for me to say to you, but even you do stupid things, more frequently than you think. Come home.

Love,

Molly.

 _He carefully refolds the letter with his gloved hands, and slips it back into the drawer, stuffed full of folded and crumpled words. He stands slowly from his crouched position, readjusts his scarf, and walks out the door, flicking off the light switch as he leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him. As he turns to go, he pauses, as if forgetting something, and quickly twitches the cheap little knocker just an inch to the right. His mouth quirks into the ghost of a smirk, and then he is gone._


	31. It's All Too Much

**It's All Too Much- The Beatles (6:25) (And, ok, maybe a couple other tracks too. I couldn't stop on this one! I feel like it might make a good plot bunny, hm. Did I ever mention how every time someone reviews an Angel gets their Wings? *nudge nudge*)**

Down the blows rain, again, and again, and again. Slowly. Methodically.

The man in the chair with cuffs clamped around hands strained tight stares into space, as his lip is split, as the tissue of his cheek is torn. The blood in his mouth creeps to the corners of his lips, tinging the pallid skin with crimson. It might have been hours. It might have been minutes. But this man moves not a bit, only closing his eyes with every crunch of fist meeting flesh. His limbs are lax and yielding.

"That's enough," says the man in the doorway, the one with the corners of his mouth permanently turned down, the one with the long and crooked nose, the one with the three-piece suit and ridiculous umbrella.

And the man in the chair, with his eyes closed, the whiteness of his sweaty skin stark against the darkness of his dirty hair, smiles.

There is the sound of shuffled footsteps, of the door closing with a squeak and a clang. The sound of air exhaling through a nose, the sound of hands clasping on fabric.

His smile grows. His eyelids flutter once, twice, and open.

The silence is broken only by the drip of blood from open wounds onto a once-white floor.

"My brother," the man begins, "has three friends, of which I am not a party to." The Word is drawn out and accented, as if the very sound is unwelcome in his mouth. His lips twist into a familiar frown, falling into the perpetual furrows of his face easily. "This is a rather new concept for him."

"Start at the beginning," rasps the shackled man, whose eyes have opened just that much wider. His tongue flicks out to run across his teeth; to wet his lips as much as a mouth like sandpaper has the means to do. His voice, though harsh with disuse, still house the lilt of a melodic accent.

The man with his hands clasped sighs deeply, drawing his brows close and blinking his lids closed. He is a man that one might think defeated, with his face drawn and hopeless; but his eyes flick open, and narrow. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes was born on January 6, 1976."

His eyes, like pools of dark liquid, begin to smolder, as the coveted information pours in, in, in.


	32. Tangerine

**Tangerine- Led Zeppelin**

(This was written before S4- and turned out quite relevant! *spoiler* poor Mary…)

Through the scope, she aims. Clear shot, easy target. In a moment, his smooth forehead will be marred by the force of a sniper's bullet; minimal blood loss, imminently fatal. She doesn't pause to consider the morality of what she does- that side of her is under careful lock and key- but pulls the trigger with the staggering finality that only a well-trained muscle can bring. Looking up from her work, she notes the silent kill, the sluggish movements of the swarm just beginning to notice that something is _terribly wrong_. Quickly she packs her gun, slinging the bag over her shoulder and leaving with the practiced ease she finds in stealth, the shadows of the stairwell a welcome cover to her precise steps.

In the darkest part of night, when the moon shines it's weak light over the boughs of trees so bent with snow that they heave in the sighing wind, she finds herself, predictably, awake, staring down a measure of alcohol in an unlit room. The ice gleams in the shaded night, and she wonders just how stiff a drink has to be in order to make a kill just a kill, and not a murder. _When does it end?_

She used to keep lists of kills, of years, of numbers of weapons used; of men with brown hair, women with blue eyes; of those who fought back, and of those who didn't see it coming- lists of those who looked at her as the light of life left their eyes. She stopped when the numbers got too large. Only someone with some form of a moral compass- even one so highly suspect- could leave room in their brain for such information. No- now, every kill- every detail- was smoothly, unquestionably erased: pushed firmly out of her head, such was her control.

The problem was, she was a _liar_. An extremely efficient one, but a liar nonetheless. And when one exists solely on the platform of lies and fantasies that one has built for oneself- well, she lost herself, utterly and completely, in the great sinking pit that was her mind and soul.

And so, as she stared down at the winking glass that night, she hoped, in some long-lost part of herself, that perhaps this night, _this night_ , there would be an answer at the bottom..

..and there was. Her name was Mary.


	33. Kreutzer

**Sonata No. 9, 'Kreutzer', II. Andante con Variazioni, Beethoven**

 **Yehudi Menuhin, violin; Wilhelm Kempff, piano**

 **(written pre TFP)**

Ever think about the backlash? What does it mean, anyway? Consequences? The knowledge that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction? _Action, reaction._ It's simple, really. So, in knowing that- how could I have lured myself into  
believing we were existing in anything other than bought time?

I think the better question is: _did I ever really believe it?_ It was only a matter of time, really. I savored it- those completely innocent moments, where we were just a broken man and a slowly healing woman, tentatively falling into something  
so simple as love. Considering our pasts, and our futures, we had a sublimely plain courtship: walks in the park, dates in coffee shops. Bickering over facial hair, or lack thereof.

When he came…back…no. Let me go back. I always loved John. Not from day one- but from _day one_. There was always something clean about him; straightforward, and hurting terribly, but honest and true. But when I met him, it was as if some rare light  
had been extinguished in his soul, and the emptiness of that wound leaked into his manner more often than he realized.

And when he came back…that very evening, there was a difference in him. Some spark had been re-triggered. Oh, it was all very well; buried beneath the seething anger, (I don't blame him, I really don't,) he had become whole again. And it was then that  
I realized that _Sherlock_ , that dear, hopeless man, was the kindling to our fire; that only from this point did we burn, bright, in those few short years of bought time. And even caught up in the whirlwinds of the backlash, _it was worth it,_ for  
this moment in time; knowing and loving these two men.


End file.
